


Nuts and Bolts

by Prefect (vaderade)



Category: Original Work, The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Amputation, BDSM, Canon Compliant, Gen, Injury Recovery, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Original Fiction, Other, Permanent Injury, Predicament Bondage, some nsfw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2019-10-18 14:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaderade/pseuds/Prefect
Summary: A collection of drabbles that I rescued from my old tumblr as well as newer ones from various prompts! Anything NSFW is marked.





	1. Prompt Fill: Rictus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for my friend @Fauvester on twitter. Originally posted 6/6/17.

Rictus had always longed for command. Lusted for it, even. Even in the academy, he knew he was well-suited for tasks of strategic importance and coordination. He excelled, brilliantly, but… the praise he received never was without qualification.

_‘It is a noble thing for a young flier to embrace the talents of his alternative mode in the service of the public good, but he—’_

_‘Rictus has potential, it is plain to see, but his fellow students, as well as I, all agree that he must learn to treat not only his superiors with respect and to not treat the object of the police as a war. He is capable and strong, but you must take care while he is in your service, as Rictus, he at times—’_

_‘Rictus has been a most brilliant cadet, I couldn’t recommend him enough for sergeantry, but as strongly as I offer him as a laudable candidate, I must also caution you: Rictus—’_

Lacks behaviour befitting a civically minded mech.

Lacks the ability to form a sympathetic response.

Lacks a pulse in his spark.

Rictus held no compunctions about the lack of his emotional output. Perhaps as a part of the larger problem, he had trouble feeling guilt for anything he didn’t personally see as a problem. He had never answered to the question of why he wanted to work with the police with something like 'for the good of cybertron,’ because it wasn’t his concern. He had never felt a need to respect his peers or junior officers, at least not when their opinions had no bearing on his success.

As for his spark? It glowed as bright as any other… but he would be the first to admit that his pulse only ever ran high behind closed doors.

The psychologists they paid for annual evaluations all had their theories. Some focused on his isolation as a flier in his line of work. Others on his early lack of group formation, absence of a trine, and lack of identification with others of his alt-mode. Some believed Rictus’ problem was his need for control, an all-consuming desire to control everything and everyone around him.

But things were much simpler to Rictus. He wasn’t there to keep anyone safe. He was only there to impose order, to follow order. By any means possible.

Yet still a mech could dream.


	2. Prompt fill: Vantax & Perate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for my dear friend @Fauvester on twitter! Originally posted 6/9/17.

Perate held in his white and gold fingers a legal-size docupad. Not meant for small datamech hands. And yet Perate was offering it, ever-gentle, for Vantax to hold in his very own doll-like hands.

“No, no way,” said the quiet little one in disbelief as he took it. He treated it as carefully as a holy book from long-dead Tetrahex. “You must be kidding me.”

“Not at all,” said his conjunx with a demure smile. “Have I ever lead you along like that?”

Three documents. One hundred thousand words. The foundational texts of a new life, hard to receive and even harder to afford. The first: declaration of alt-mode exemption. The second: official name change. The third: a medical release for a frame change.

“How?” Vantax asked, optics darting about behind his visor for answers. “I mean, who did you—? You didn’t, yourself, did you? Well, anyway this must have cost—”

“Hah, slow down, speedster.” Perate was positively gleaming, especially when laughing low and soft— it was distracting Vant from asking what he wanted. “It’s nothing complex. —How? Some years of petitioning. —Who? One sympathiser from Iacon has some friends in high places. —How much? Doesn’t matter.” Perate smiled at him, white denta flashing. “It didn’t to me, anyway.”

Perate was being deliberately casual, but Vant knew his lover had begged on his behalf. For metacycles— probably ever since they had become conjunx, or even perhaps earlier? To those most unlikely to hear Vant’s case. And then there was the money— Perate no doubt had to pay in addition to whatever he had already paid for the total frame change, to sweeten the deal to whoever put the seal on that page. To get Vant every bit of what he had always wanted.

His processor was overwhelmed with emotion, and far too many questions. But as it began to catch on just a single one, Vant could feel tears brimming behind his visor.

“What will the others think of you now?” Vant’s voice was so small it might have come from a newborn spark.

Perate crouched to his level. “Why should that matter either?”

“These are still _your_ _colleagues_ we’re talking about…” he replied, vocaliser crackling, “Your career.”

“Yours as well.” Perate insisted.

“No, no, sweetspark, not mine. I’ve told you this before.” He could feel something hot flow through his optical seams, out past the edges of his visor. “You were never supposed to notice me, much less do any of this. We’re designed to be disposable, to be used and thrown away. Not to… partner with you.” Vant hiccuped. “Professionally. Or not.”

Perate reached out and gently wiped one long streak of energon from Vant’s faceplate with the tip of his thumb. His fingers brushed the round cap of Vant’s auditory receptors. Vant was doing his best to hold back the flood, which became harder and harder the more he looked at Perate.

“Do you remember what you said when we started formally courting?” Perate asked, voice feather-light. He moved his hand to Vant’s slim shoulder.

Vant nodded vigorously, then choked out: “Tell me again anyway.”

“Well,” began Perate, “we were on an excursion, as I recall…”

“You nearly dropped me that day.” Vant said, laughing tearfully.

“—Did _not_!” Perate interjected, with a soft pinch at Vant’s faceplate in jest. Vant laughed some more. “You said your hand slipped, and you know perfectly well I wouldn’t have let you fall! —So, that night-cycle, we were camped a little ways away, going over the data…”

Vant remembered it perfectly well. Even without his enlarged data capacity, Vant would never have forgotten it. They had spent thousands upon thousands of cycles working in concert, the romantic tensions between them only increasing over time as they came to understand each other. But Perate was always polite to a fault: well-aware of the difference of power between them and even more consistently vigilant against overstepping as Vant’s former employer had, it was left to Vant to make a first move. And that night…

“…you had taken a snapshot of me.” Perate continued, yellow optics wide and bright. Vant felt energon rush behind his faceplate (he recalled it had nearly frozen in his cables at the time). “When I caught you, as in when I didn’t let you fall.”

A smile tugged at Vant’s lips and he looked at his hands. “I was mortified that you saw the picture.”

“And I was sure your spark had stopped.” Perate giggled. “I was about to call a medic. But then you coughed and apologised. We moved on, but it set a certain mood…”

“Hm.” Vant smiled thinking about it. They generally would go over their findings, then split some energon and talk. At first, it had all mostly been about literature or whatever Perate brought up, but then Vant began to introduce his own personal projects to the conversation, and from there their discussions had only become more and more intimate. In a sense, they had courted out of order. They had shared their most personal truths well before weaving their fingers together.

“It was complaint night.” Perate said. “And when I had finished venting about our wonderful boss,” (Vant snorted,) “who was delaying the tenure that I was practically _owed—_ besides consistently insulting our close partnership —and I believe I said something like…” Perate dramatically sighed and air quoted: “ ‘It’s not a fair world. For either of us, and I hate it.’ And then you said…”

“And I said,” Vant jumped in, “ ‘Perate, you’re too young to hate the world.’ So you, helpfully…” Perate couldn’t stop himself from grinning, “…reminded me that you’re older than I am.”

“By a smidge.” Perate conceded.

“So I leaned in, took your hand,” as Vant did now, grabbing Perate’s free hand, “and it took a few thousand years of built up confidence for me to say: ‘Too old to love?’” Vant nearly stuttered as badly as he had then, saying it now. It had felt even more silly back then.

Perate gripped Vant’s hand back. “Exactly that.” Perate smiled. “But do you know why I asked you to become conjunx just after?”

Vant’s receptors piqued in interest, and he shook his head.

“Because you undid my ambivalence right then and there.” Perate answered. “It was zero-sum. Hate and give in to the rules I had professed to hate— or accept your love, and mine, and resist. But more than that…” Perate’s eyes crinkled happily. “If you love me, anything is possible. Your dreams too.” He gestured to the datapad. “You’re holding proof of what I value most.”

Vant had to place a hand on his chestplate, as if it would stop his spark from falling out. He gingerly handed the docupad to Perate, and worldlessly slipped into his welcoming arms.


	3. Prompt Fill: Flashsteel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same deal! Originally posted on 6/14/17.

Flashsteel loved his crew. In defeat and in victory, this 30 member unit under Autobot Special Operations was more than his responsibility. He would rather fry his own circuits than see his team go. Even if he was not formally at its head.

As a rule, their unit generally didn’t stay to see the results of their bravado. They reconnoitred, scouted, and ran their clandestine ops to soften up the ‘cons so the big guns could barge right in. And then they would leave. Rictus ran them ragged: system to system, with scarcely a break. But every so often, when Command hadn’t yet come calling, Flashsteel would nudge Rictus into letting them join the main body of Autobot forces: to help, to see their work through, and maybe enjoy a bit more action. Rictus was normally amenable to it, even. He would rather be on a battlefield than stuck in space, waiting for another mission.

The Decepticons were in siege mode when the unit was assigned to arrive on the planet Enorat, a few hundred light years away from Cybertron. Before and even during the early days of the war, it had been a trading post of high value to Cybertron, with goods that came from even tightly supervised Consortia space. The Decepticons had wanted the planet for its strategic value and large stockpiles of traded energon. The Autobots had liberated the planet early in the war, but the ‘cons were ever persistent and tried for a more subtle return. 

The team had been assigned to flush them out and secure the energon, as well as the planet. And they had done so, to marvellous success— especially after joining forces with the other unit assigned there —with relatively few injuries or casualties. Flashsteel’s unit had lost two to mines outside of the Decepticon fortress, and currently their medic, Ready, was patching up their over-eager infiltration team. A combined total between both units of six casualties, and fifteen wounded. But more importantly, the Autobots had won the day, and that was cause enough for bittersweet celebration— and a well-needed one with news of so many losses on the main front.

Flashsteel stood by the doorway to the overcrowded hull space of their allies’ ship, engex in hand. He had needed a bit, even if he wasn’t going to participate with his jocund fellow mechs— he was too worried about the bots in the medbay, and needed something to hold onto. And engex was an easy swallow anyway. He didn’t have some sparkling’s inhibitor chip crammed up there. It eased his nerves, as did watching the soldiers celebrating— MTO’s and veterans alike, with the couple of Autobot diplomatic corps members they had rescued in the mix.

Rictus approached him from behind. “Flashsteel.” He said. Flashsteel was so startled he nearly spilled his drink. Rictus quirked a brow-plate at the engex. “Is that your first?”

“Nah,” Flashsteel responded, scarcely thinking his response through, “not like it’s doing much, though.” For show, Flashsteel downed the rest of what was left in his glass.

Flashsteel was almost glad Rictus had shown up. He was somewhat bored, just sitting around. Drinking. He wanted something to do, to blow off some adrenaline as they had been the past few days. But any optimism he had towards his Commander’s appearance evaporated as Rictus ex-vented contemptuously. Rictus was feeling vicious, not otherwise.

“It would be best to make this announcement sober,” he suggested, smooth, “so I’ll go ahead.”

Rictus began to take a step into the room, but Flashsteel turned towards his superior officer and barred the way by wedging his cannon arm in the doorframe. Rictus looked down at him with an imperious expression.

“Oh, please.” Rictus said sardonically. “What is it now.”

“Stow it,” replied Flashsteel. He squinted up at Rictus. “I have a right to know what’s going on and what you plan to say.”

Rictus rolled his optics. “I guessed you were going to tell me something like that.”

“Just a reminder: one thing you put me in charge of when you were commissioned was morale of our unit.” Flashsteel nodded his head in the direction of the party. “To me, that’s serious business, and this is the highest morale’s been in a few hundred metacycles.” He put down his glass and readied his other hand for any potential physical resistance. “So, yeah, I think I can claim that right.”

Rictus looked from Flashsteel to the jovial scene beyond him, and began to frown.

“I have little appetite for your defiance right now,” Rictus said to Flashsteel, each knowing full well what he meant, “and _vast_ appreciation for my six mechs in the medbay and two on the slab.”

Always sharper than knives, that was Rictus. Flashsteel knew he was being had and yet felt guilty regardless. Unfortunately, Flashsteel always had trouble controlling his EM field when engex was in the mix— but Rictus could probably tell how much of an effect he had produced on Flashsteel even if that weren’t the case, given that they were facing each other.

Flashsteel had a deep responsibility to every one of these mechs, but more than that, he loved his crew. When he was injured, they treated it as theirs, and when they were harmed, it struck him alone twice as hard. He knew each one by name, the city they were born in, and what they hoped to do after the war. He knew them like every mech in his sector of Rodion, the ones Rictus railed against as unreformed and unwashed miscreants with no regard to authority. The difference was that he had been in command then. He could silence Rictus without any backlash. But now… for all that had been taken, even rightfully so, Flashsteel would still remain a shield towards those he cared for. That was his purpose then, as it was now.

Rictus tried to push past him in that moment of weakness, but Flashsteel remained determined, and pounded his cannon against the doorframe once more. Rictus’ eyes flashed.

“Don’t pretend I’m not worried about them.” Flashsteel said, sincerely. “I worry about all of them. The rest of the mechs out there do too. But unlike you or me, the ones out there have got no way to deal with any of this. So please,” Flashsteel implored, “let them celebrate. Don’t ruin this for them. Just tell me, and I’ll go talk to the crew.”

Rictus’ mouth was curled in either dissatisfaction or total smug attraction at Flashsteel’s cannon in front of him. Flashsteel thought Rictus might try to cut him down again for a brief moment. But instead, surprisingly, Rictus backed away.

“I’ll put your insubordination down to the engex,” Rictus said hotly, “but don’t expect me to forget it, Lieutenant.”

Flashsteel brought his cannon back down to his side, hand on his hip. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He muttered, then adopting an official tone. “—And the announcement?”

“We depart on the morning shift. I expect all hands and not one mech out of line.” Rictus ordered. “We are joining a contingent of Autobot forces, including Team Prime, on another far-flung mud-ball. We will be briefed on arrival.”

“Understood, Commander. I’ll alert the crew.” Flashsteel said, saluting, then turning back to the crowded room. 

Rictus paused, but then stalked off towards the bridge. 

Flashsteel was sure Rictus would find him later to try to get into his processor again. It was almost a consistent guarantee.

But until then, Flashsteel had something much more meaningful to look out on.


	4. Prompt Fill: Ready & Stridor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for @Fauvester, this time featuring her OC, Stridor! Originally published 6/23/17.

“Wow, that’s a… weird-looking bug.” A familiar voice remarked from across the room.

Ready looked up, startled, from the stacks of charts in front of him. Overworked, low on charge, with optical shutters heavier than hangar doors, it took his processor a moment to adjust. Frame in rust-red, dead yellow optics, and that unique ventilated face mask…

“Stridor?” It came as a question, confirmed by his processor as soon as it caught up with the optical input. Ready hadn’t even heard the other mech come in. It was only by force of his habitually sharp tongue that he corrected Stridor: “That’s not a ‘bug.’ It’s a brain-corroding, frame-burrowing technoparasite. From Gorlam Minor. Picked it up while with…” He paused. “Wait, Stridor. What are you doing here?”

“Now you’re going to _really_ surprise me by explaining that it’s in a stasis-locked containment cell.” Ready immediately felt guilty when Stridor rolled his optics and clicked his glossa. “Seems you haven’t changed.”

Ready rubbed at his bright blue optic covers and pulled one magnifier to his eye, then pushed it back. Primus, how long had it been? The entire war, perhaps longer? Definitely longer. They graduated, rival classmates and teammates, from medical school in which cycle? He was feeling too fuzzy to remember exactly, processor still halfway mired in deciphering the amateurish chart he had been working through before… Zeta Prime certainly hadn’t come into power yet. Must have been… must have been…

“You’re one to talk. A few million years go by and you still don’t say hello when you walk into a room.” Ready laughed uneasily. “Though you look… a bit worse for wear.”

Understatement. Ready was a damn good medic, and a good medic noticed what an average mech wouldn’t. He remembered exactly what Stridor looked like before the war— he used to keep that obscene chest ornament out of the way behind his plating. And didn’t show signs of crystalline growth at the joints. Of course, everything was well-lubricated, Stridor was a better medic than Ready had liked to admit back when they first encountered each other. But there were places harder to reach… especially with years of buildup from neural blockers.

“And when was your last recharge?” Stridor asked.

Ready shrugged dismissively. “I had some surgeries. And my slagging nurses bungled all the busy work. Because all the medics with any circuitry still connected in their brains haven’t come back to Cybertron yet.”

Stridor crossed his arms. Ready cringed at the Decepticon brand which still blazed on Stridor’s chest. Ready’s opposing badge felt heavy on his spark all of a sudden.

“Except for you, now.” Ready appended, babbling. “That is, if you’re still practicing…?”

“Oh. Of course.” Stridor scoffed.

“I just thought from the…” Ready motioned lazily to the enlarged ray module on Stridor’s chest, struggling to be polite and failing. “The… you know.” Stridor gave Ready a quizzical look.

Ready struggled to find something to say. And when he couldn’t stand the silence, and finally he got up from his desk and walked over to Stridor, venting frustratedly, “Really, not that I want to be insulting, but— Primus, Stridor, what even _happened_ to you?”

“Here it comes.” Stridor muttered under his breath.

“We don’t meet for a few million years, and from the looks of it, there would be no good reason for us to,” Ready jabbed a long finger at Stridor’s badge, “and now you show up here of all places. In this shack that Bumblebee calls a 'hospital.’”

Stridor breathed what might have been a shallow laugh. Ready wasn’t as amused. He probed a finger under the armoured strap that held Stridor’s chest plating and withdrew it to reveal a small trail of salt crystals. He clicked a magnifier over one eye to get a closer look.

“Track marks. From nitrous salts.” Ready stated bluntly. Stridor seemed unfazed as ever, though his fingers were twitching. Ready vented a huff. “I have to say, you did do a good job of getting it out of your joints, but the lubricant made me suspicious. —I wouldn’t have pegged you for a blocker user back when we met and I still don’t now. So what are you medicating for?”

“…Chronic pain. It’s standard procedure for us,” said Stridor, arms still folded. He looked from Ready’s face down to his badge, “Though I suppose you wouldn’t be aware.”

“Ugh. How would I?” He brushed his hand off and moved away his magnifier to look Stridor directly in the optics. Then, giving up, Ready pinched at his nasal bridge, shaking his head. That heavy buildup meant a significant dosage, enough to knock out any normal bot or put the inexperienced into critical overload. Stridor was not stupid. Ready learned that within a year of being consistently trounced back in their shared program. “You don’t need me to tell you that it’s irresponsible.”

“No, I don’t. Could have even spared me most of the talk.” Stridor replied languidly, yawning. He picked up the containment cell he had been eyeing earlier, turning it over in his hands and holding it up for a closer look. “Nice of you to comment though.”

Ready brushed his servos over the central ridge of his chevron and cranium. Ready knew what was meant, and Stridor was right. Ready used to treat that much as a defeat, but this time he just felt… immature. He was used to Stridor who fired back at a moment’s notice, always there to push or tug back at him. One of them had learned better, and it didn’t feel like Ready could claim the high ground this time. And Stridor was waiting for him to try better; otherwise he’d have left. Though clearly he wasn’t impressed so far.

He nearly swallowed his words, stuck as they were in his voicebox. “Sorry.” Stridor looked back at Ready, and he felt an odd lurch in his frame, pinned under that gaze. “That was well… uncalled for, and definitely unprofessional.” Stridor nodded, and Ready cleared his box to try to make it stop sticking.

“I should check my audials. Did I just hear Ready of Polyhex admitting a mistake?” Stridor asked facetiously.

“Polyhex _Minor._ ” Ready corrected, though he was smiling. “I’ve been studying how for the past four million years.”

“Tell me about it.” Stridor replied, and Ready could have sworn he sounded amused.

Ready couldn’t help but laugh. He hadn’t appreciated Stridor’s dry humour before. A few things had changed, he guessed.

“I will if you will.” Ready invited. And in some way, that started to put things right.


	5. Prompt Fill: Rictus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some suggestive Rictus/Flashsteel for @Fauvester! Originally posted 6/24/17.

_‘This was a mistake,’_ thought Rictus, like every other time Flashsteel’s plying lips were on his.

 _'You should stop this, and stop yourself too. This is exactly why you made a rule,’_ whispered his conscience, buried under the strut-tingling sensation of one hand clawing at his frame.

 _'You’re going to regret this,’_ came even more faintly, like the caresses that were too gentle to come from this warrior, the ones that sent his spark drumming and engines roaring.

And really, that particular thought had always left Rictus with one lingering question, one that swore and curled and pooled beneath him in pleasure:

_When?_

Any angst that came from these late nights was fleeting, meaningless, as much so as the tumbling babble he knew to draw out from between those soft lips. They awoke to the day cycle as Commander and Lieutenant, had their plans, their fights, their business, and orders. Rictus was only surprised this happened more than a single time. He wasn’t sure he knew, and so he tried not to think about why.

 _‘If I don’t know, why do I do it?’_ —He couldn’t help but wonder sometimes, when he was alone. He never thought about it when they were together. It seemed obvious at those times. It was only later that he tried to reason it out, only to end up fearing the answer. Flashsteel was a misdrawn line in his perfect maze, one that lead to a deep pit of guilt. One that Rictus didn’t know he had until he fell into it. And with that, he was always swallowed in the unfathomable ambiguity of who they were to each other.

Interfacing had nothing to do with either. It was easier than grappling with the reality of the situation. It established a clear and concise order for a brief time, a purely pleasurable one, wholly unambiguous. But afterwards…

Sentimentality didn’t come into the equation for Rictus. It was simply a matter of doing what one should when it came to aftercare. After they cleaned up, they laid together, venting gently in the berth. Flashsteel usually curled up to Rictus, with his head on that broad, unadorned chest. Rictus curled his arm around Flashsteel. He never got to admire Flashsteel closely aside from these moments, lazily stroking a thumb in small circles over a seam in his second’s armor, occasionally catching on a minor scuff or uneven edge. Rictus would have preferred to lie there in that simple silence, but the illusion that this was just another unconditional encounter couldn’t last.

“Hey,” Flashsteel’s voice, though he spoke softly, seemed to fill the whole room. Rictus didn’t move, but vented deeply in preparation for any number of questions he didn’t know how to answer to. Flashsteel paused. Probably because of Rictus’ reaction. But then voiced his query anyway. “You plotted our course earlier, right?”

 _Well, that was easier than expected._ “Yes.” Rictus answered.

“How much longer do we have?” Flashsteel then followed up. “—Not us, here. I mean as a crew.”

“I know. —We have one more day-cycle.” Rictus replied, tight lipped.

“All right,” Flashsteel nodded where he laid on Rictus’ chest, breath ghosting on his frame. “That’s enough time, I’ll make sure they’re ready.”

And then when Flashsteel fell silent, Rictus almost thought he could evade answering anything more difficult for a while. He even began to fall towards recharge, offlining his optics and letting his arm only drape limply around Flashsteel. He didn’t try to move it back when Flashsteel readjusted beside him, but started, pulling his optics open again immediately when Flashsteel spoke again.

“Sometimes I think you dislike me completely.”

Flashsteel was on his side, looking at Rictus. Rictus pulled his arm out from under Flashsteel and flipped to his side to face the other mech. He frowned a bit at first, squinting to get his optics to refocus. It would be a lie to say he was too tired to really control his expressions well.

“I don’t, Flashsteel.” Rictus groggily murmured. “You would know if I did.”

“You’ve said that.” Flashsteel said, clear and sharp.

“We wouldn’t be in my _berth_ , first of all…” Rictus suppressed a yawn.

“You don’t talk to me aside from moments like this.”

Flashsteel’s vocaliser actually cracked at that. Rictus frowned, annoyed. Flashsteel wanted to have this conversation? Now?

“I talk to you all the time, Flashsteel.” Rictus said, voice muffled. “You’re tired, just go recharge.”

“You know I can’t ask you what I want.” Flashsteel complained.

Rictus laughed low despite himself. “And I didn’t tell you earlier?”

“Spare me the berthroom talk.”

Rictus sat up on one elbow, meeting Flashsteel’s defiant eyes. It would be best not to upset this. Not for the sake of the arrangement. But because in the brief moments of lucidity when Flashsteel was not mired under his own self-defeat, Rictus could feel their respective positions slip into the grey. But he had options. Even now he knew he could assert his authority.

“What’s bothering you?” Rictus said, then softly adding, “Do you even know?" 

Flashsteel broke eye contact, positively withering under his gaze. Rictus reached and gently tugged Flashsteel’s chin back to face him. Flashsteel didn’t resist. 

"Hm? Is it _this_? I told you: in this I’m at your mercy. Say the word and we stop,” he nearly whispered.

“No,” Flashsteel finally said, “not this. It’s just…” Flashsteel’s expression fell and he turned his face downward, Rictus gently withdrawing his hand. Flashsteel’s voicebox scrambled over the words at first and he coughed. “Your professional opinions.”

Nothing easy tonight. Rictus devoted cycles to the very question of professional opinions. Rictus laid back down, onto his side, still facing Flashsteel.

“Your candor is remarkable.” Rictus started brazenly. “It grates on my nerves at times." 

He brushed a hand up to Flashsteel’s cannon arm, and slid his fingers slowly down one panel until his hand rested, palm down, atop its end. Flashsteel’s optics darted in mild confusion. "You’ve given more than many. Your commendation for valor is well-deserved." 

Rictus swallowed back a bitter taste, and continued evenly, though the words were far from easy. "As your commander, no matter what, I want you to know that I’m proud of you.”

Flashsteel’s expression split with a shining smile, the kind that had always suited his face, and he closed their distance without another word. Rictus held the grounder tightly to his chest, looking out ahead. 

And then, this time in dread, he wondered: 

_When._

When would he regret this night?


	6. Vantax & Perate

Their hab was quiet except for their breathing. Dark, too. During the night, the room was only ever faintly lit by a soft glow from the ventilation unit on the wall, which cast a dreamlike lavender hue across the room.

Perate laid with his back on the berth. The white and gold of his plates glowed in this light, whereas Vant's sucked it up, plain silver and black hands clasped gently in and around one of Perate's.

Vant, on his side, moved closer, curling around Perate’s arm. One bright yellow optic flickered and illuminated dimly, turning Perate's gaze on the little mech beside him. Visor retracted, Vant's optics were sleepily dim, lids heavy, though their faint blue glow still cast itself across the berth. Perate gripped Vant's hands a bit tighter with a tired smile. The light drew upwards. Vant squeezed back.

Sometimes he looked up to Perate and felt insignificant, as if his presence were not necessary in light of the genius and passion before him. Or as if one day should Perate stop wanting him, it would be no surprise for his world to abruptly end.

At others, he looked up and felt guilty: guilty for his luck, guilty for his own intellect having brought him here, guilty for the selfishness of being uplifted alone.

But in these peaceful moments, the ones where the world beyond this room did not exist, there was only one single feeling in his spark.

"Love you." Vant whispered reverently.

"C'mere." Perate replied, tugging Vant in closer. Vant scooted himself further along the berth with a blissful smile.

Perate leaned across his arm, pressing a gentle kiss on the top of Vant's helm. As if sharing a secret, Perate said, "I love you too."

–––//–––

"There's not much time." Perate's voice was always quiet with Vant. Even when he was stressed or frustrated, it never rose, never threatened. But his tone cut, the syllables digging sharply into Vant's sides, leaving him feeling weak and frail.

"What do you mean?" Vant reached for Perate, attempting to hold back the frantic pace at which he moved, stuffing various supplies into a subspace-worthy storage unit. He missed, narrowly, the tips of his fingertips glancing off of the gleaming plates of his arms.

"Perate, what's happening?" His voice quavered noticeably.

"It's easy to grasp. You," Perate declared, placing the case in front of Vant, "are leaving."

Vant had to play the words back a few times to process the statement. Perate's expression was hard. It frightened Vant. Perate usually was so casual; he only wore this look when they were faced with a challenge, and even then it was never so severe. It was the look of someone who made hard decisions, one who stood by them.

"You're not?" Vant's voice was small, crushed, and somewhat frantic. He found himself shaking.

Perate crouched, the well-practiced neutrality cracking as he did. Those yellow eyes swam about, a grimace stretching across his face.

"No, love," Perate responded, familiar gentleness undercut by unfamiliar resignation, "there's no time for me." He nudged the container over towards Vant.

Vant gasped, clamping his hands over his mouth as if it would stop up his vocaliser, shaking his head. He didn’t even reach for the item offered. Perate placed a hand on his diminutive shoulder, smiling, though it didn't meet his optics.

"Don’t look so upset, you know it’ll wrench my spark out," he said, trying to summon levity into his tone, "I might still make it out of this, who knows. But if I don't do something to protect you, no one else will."

Vant hiccuped, bringing down his shaking hands and launching himself into Perate's chest, clasping his arms around the golden glass panes. His field was fumbling, stretching, turmoil running in a buzz throughout, trying to tug at Perate's for one last touch, one more embrace. Perate hesitated at first, caught off guard by the suddenness of it. But then he held Vant— tighter than usual, almost uncomfortably tight —neither of them wanting to let go, neither knowing if it would happen again.

“I’d sacrifice my life,” Perate whispered, “but never you.”


	7. Vandal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vandal has a rough night, but what nights aren't rough in the Dead End? Light violence involved.

Vandal hadn’t been forced to sleep on the floor in a few long nights, and he hadn’t missed it either. 

First, it was always cold and damp, no matter where you went in the Dead End. 

Second, there was no way he could ever truly find a comfortable position to lie in. That is, not unless he had a couple dozen more pillows— not something Vandal would risk arrest for. A rap sheet consisting of habitual vandalism, serial domestic terrorism, a few counts of assault on enforcers of the law, obstruction of justice, resistance of arrest, and a one time theft of twenty seven pillows would only be entertaining to the pilots of the Garrus-1 dropship, who could guffaw at the tragedy of being arrested for the sake of comfort. 

Third, nothing recharged faster than a real cycle on a real slab. He always woke up sore these days, but Vandal vastly preferred the throb of a night well-spent to the uneven aching and stiffness in his joints from hours spent in stasis against the wall.

Fourth— well, there was no fourth. But too many things came in threes or fives, and why should they, anyway? Thinking on it, fourth could be… it was… 

Fourth was that there was no reason he should have to sleep on the floor besides being too wary to have a home address. And, besides, that a berth would have cost more money than even the racket demanded. There was only one major benefit to this little room after all, and that was its seclusion and privacy. 

If those were lost, he might as well have left the Dead End for any other ditch off the beaten track.

Vandal had finally settled himself in his makeshift nest in the backroom that night when there came an insistent rapping from the window at the front of the body shop. He groaned and curled up further against the meagre, lumpy, thin pillows he possessed, gritting his teeth.

He attempted to ignore it, trying to figure out why anyone would assume that he was even there, considering that all the lights were out and the grate locked down over the doors— Yeah, with a solid, salvaged, Iacon-strong grate over the— _Wait a damned minute._

Vandal sprang to his pedes and took two steps over to a glitchy monitor on the other side of the room. 

“Oh come on, come on,” he murmured intermittently, slapping the hard edge of the broken screen to try to bring the dual-toned, staticky security camera image into display. 

It took a klik and him cursing at the ‘busted-aft-spark-fraggin’’ thing for the image to right itself. He squinted at the grainy image.

The grate was up and seemingly undamaged. Vandal knew otherwise. In spite of the low resolution of the image, he could also make out just how the light refracted over some faint cracks in the glass of the window— had those ones always been there? He heard and, with a considerable lag, watched the persistent mech at the door try to jostle the door open, pushing and pulling at the handle. More knocking then came, with an insistent call.

“Vandal, I know you’re in there! You ain’t recharging, open the damned door right now or you’ll get slagged the next time you poke your ugly red noseplate out of it!” Another banging set of knocks came from the front. “Open up!”

That was unmistakably Dealer’s voice— not the more famous Dealer of Nyon, nor Dealer of Polyhex, not to be confused with Doubledealer either, but an irritating small-timer who hardly deserved his own designation. Undoubtedly, the larger shadow behind him would be Grinder. 

Unexpected knocking after business hours couldn’t be good. Even expected knocking after business hours never was around here. And these two goons showing up again was tooth-chattering trouble.

Vandal scrambled in the dark towards the board that controlled his various failsafe measures, using only the light of his optics to find and then pull apart a few of the frayed, twisted wires that connected to the false switchboard. He was rushing, anxious of the beating his doorframe was taking. He looked towards the feed to find the glass cracked to hell and the frame bowed like an old miner’s backstrut, and worked his fingers faster, trying not to cry out at the prickle of electric feedback to his servos. —No. No, no. Deep breaths, Vandal reminded himself. It was fine. Fine! Perfectly fine. He’d deal with it, as he always did. Small price to pay for freedom.

He exited the hidden door in the darkness of the back hallway, walking casually towards the door as if he hadn’t been menaced out of hiding. Waltzing over, calm but cautious of the tripwires, he undid the brutalised lock, which clicked twice as it disengaged the hammer from the now-disarmed firing mechanism above the door. He opened the bent door, and was about to greet Dealer when suddenly his vocaliser shorted and his feet found no purchase on the ground.

Vandal then realized that Grinder had him by a hand on the throat. Vandal crackled out a harsh sound of surprise, uselessly clutching at Grinder’s thick servos as they squeezed around his neck.

“You little…” said Grinder, visor glinting threateningly, “you made us wait, I knew it!”

Vandal felt his tanks turn and his fuel pump’s tempo kick up as his lines struggled to deliver fuel to his brain module.

“Kuh,” he gasped out, “care to explain the visit? Suh…prised me.”

Dealer gestured to Grinder. “Put ‘im down, buddy.” Vandal kicked uselessly as the grip on his neck tightened further. Dealer then paused for a couple moments longer than necessary, then snapped, “I meant on the ground, don’t get all meta-feral— metaph—"

“Metaphorical?!” Vandal winced.

“Yeah, what the little tailpipe said. Quit it.”

Grinder dropped him, and Vandal collapsed to his knees over the threshold. He rubbed the tips of his servos over his mangled throat cabling, intakes harsh and rasping, self repair pushing and pulling nauseatingly at the crimped wiring of his intake. Vandal heard Grinder chortling. Short-statured Dealer stood just above his eye level, and although Vandal’s visual feed was unfocused from the energon rushing back to his head, he swore he saw the cruel tilt of a smile across Dealer’s faceplate.

“Did you practice that?” Vandal muttered contemptuously.

Either Dealer hadn’t heard or pretended not to. 

“You’re late,” Dealer said flatly. “Late enough that we got posted to watch you all damn day to make sure you’d be here when we collected. Y’know how boring that was?”

“Can’t help that,” Vandal said, still catching his breath, “you’ve got shorter attention spans than, hah, me.”

“Yeah, they’re short all right,” Dealer said, pausing as he screwed up his faceplate to think about whether he’d insulted himself or not. But not for long enough to be offended. Dealer charged on ahead: “‘bout as short as Slackjaw’s fuse, I’d say. Where’s his cut, Vandal?”

Vandal frowned, still rubbing his throat cables, “Gave it to you a few somethin's ago. An orn maybe?”

Dealer clicked his glossa, annoyed. “Wasn’t all there, mech.”

“You better look for it then.” Vandal smiled toothily. “What, boss-mech seem mad when you saw him?”

“Yeah,” Grinder said, full of bluster. “He said you had it coming. Don’t you think?”

“Nah, really I mean… You just gotta assume, y’know, for the sake of sanity? Some people might think this is the Dead End version of a friendly greeting, but you know, and I know that you know, and I know— mechs don’t get choked for nothing. Unless they do, and if that’s the case, uh-oh, some good citizen better call in the enforcers.” Vandal said, pushing himself to his feet. 

Grinder stiffened, and Vandal laughed at him, grin widening. 

“Awh, Grinder, good ol’ Grind-a-bug, you think I’d go do that to you? You know it wouldn't be me, I’m such a model fragging citizen that they’ve got my name all up in searchlights now! —But anyway, you two must’ve had a reason to break down my door, right?”

He put a hand on his hip and tapped a servo, looking off pensively.

“Although now that I’m thinking about it… Hm, what could a local small business owner like me have done to make the big scary racketeer boss mad in the past couple orns…”

Dealer cut in then with a nasty growl, a fang glinting in the light of the street lamps. “Primus, shut up! Can’t keep your shrieking out of my audials for more than a minute! You already know why we’re here— just tell us where the money is!”

“Only shrieking I hear is you, Squawker. That why you had him greet me like that, half-pint? Keep me quiet?” Vandal cackled, giving Dealer a shove too hard to be playful. “And here I was bragging to the boss about how good the customer service was around here.”

Grinder braced back a step. Alarmed, he asked, “Was he here?”

Vandal cocked his helm for a moment, looking at Grinder, before peeling into a delighted grin. “Sure was. Didn’t notice the fresh coat? Or did you just lie about seeing him? —Ya done fragged up, if you didn’t compliment him. That was all me, Grind-bug. Thought you might recognize it since I did yours that one time, and gave you those sweet, sweet rims to boot. Doesn’t surprise me that Itty-Bitty Daft-aft here didn’t though, he’s not as sharp as you. I think you need a better partner—“

Dealer tried to hit Vandal, but the much-larger hauler easily kicked him backwards with a pede to the panels. It slammed the small mech into Grinder, who stumbled in surprise.

“Vandal, where’s the money?” Dealer hissed.

“I gave it to you.” Vandal crossed his arms. “Told the boss he could expect you to have it. Guessin’ you really didn’t bother seeing him before trying to squeeze me. —Is this going the way you planned? Just wanna keep up with you two, I feel like we’ve really bonded over the circuit-fried job you’re doing here. You two trying to take off and ditch the boss or something?” Vandal asked as he raised a brow plate. “Oh, you in love or some sick slag like that? Bet you two fragged once and now think you’re predestined sparkmates! I’m surprised! Grind get you that worked up, Deal? —Hehe, takes three rites to conjunx and only one to get your spark snuffed y’know.”

He glanced over their shocked faceplates, then smacking his palm onto his tall crest with a laugh.

"…No, no, no, wait a klik, what am I saying, Dealer’s a filthy shanix-scanner and Grinder’s too romantic for him anyway. It’s just not meant to be— I’m tellin’ you, Grind, you need a better partner! —Hm, did you waste a bunch of cash betting on petrorabbit fights? On races? Always bet on Blurr, that’s a beginner’s mistake, Daft-Deal.” Vandal patted Dealer on the shoulder, only to then make a show of wiping his hand off on the doorframe.

Vandal then clapped his hands together.

“Oh, I know! Some fiesty leaker made off with the cash, didn’t they? Serves you right, you bastards probably don’t even tip, like how Grind didn’t even thank the mech at the desk that one time we got a room at that—“

“—Stop. Speculating.” Dealer’s faceplate was contorted in anger, optics flaring.

“Sure, sure.” Vandal said, grinning devilishly. “Can I ask you one more thing though? What’s the best address to send the repair bill to? —Boss-mech, right? I mean, it’s his shop, technically, and your aft is probably gonna get terminated for stealing his shanix, and besides you don’t have cash anyway…”

Dealer pushed past his partner angrily and shouted for Grinder to follow. Grinder waved goodbye quickly to Vandal and then followed, leaving Vandal alone in the dark street. 

Vandal rolled his optics with a sigh. Some slagging night-cycle he was having. Getting choked out by big-spike-soft-aft Grinder and having half-pint-less-sense Dealer try to use him for a mistake that they made, after wrecking his storefront? And Vandal knew he couldn’t let himself recharge unless he repaired it.

Well, all the same, he wasn’t expecting to get much rest in the first place. He gingerly stepped through the doorframe, collected his kit, and set to work.


	8. Prompt Fill: Flashsteel

The best lies that Flashsteel could tell were always half-truths. He had no talent for masking his feelings, especially his desire to be honest. He had struggled to keep a straight face for all the years of his professional career and never mastered it. The best he could do was to evoke the earnest face of a mech who cared passionately, the gently pursed lips of one under too much pressure to do so less. He always carried the desperate mark of an optimist between his brows, the pinches and creases of one who squinted at rusted gears to find the bright, weathered edges at their teeth.

There was nothing dishonest about the practice— the simplest statement of a fact covered up for all the difficulty of a situation.

"What is the greatest challenge to policing in Rodion?" Flashsteel remembered that a reporter had once asked him at a press conference.

"It's simple, and I can answer you in one word: trust," Flashsteel had said. Rodion's citizens had no trust in their police to fulfil the mission to protect and serve. "That's why our project here in 78th is so vital; we are here to restore that trust." 

He carried himself with the gentle, prophetic confidence that assured all listeners that, indeed, they had nothing to worry about. He had seen to the depths of the Great Rust Sea. There was nothing more complicated about Cybertron's city-state best known for its brutal, unforgiving underground than a lack of trust between individuals and state authorities.

Simple problems have simple solutions, according to the common logic, and the full burden of truth was far beyond the ability of many to bear. It was a responsibility of those in charge to make things simple. Uncomplicated fact never choked anyone he had ever met. Sometimes he wondered it was for this demonstration of Flashsteel's belief in the rallying power of simplicity that Rictus had never discouraged him, never cut the strings that bound them.

"Flashsteel," Ready once said to him, bearing a recognisably concerned expression. "Who is the Captain to you?"

By this ocassion that Flashsteel had been sitting in the medbay, Ready had already saved his spark fourteen times and stood at his side against their Captain dozens more. Flashsteel had been upset, when he came in— Rictus had berated him once again over the latest morale issue, and Flashsteel had been finding it difficult to cope. He was calm now, but had let on more than he had intended to Ready. 

He folded his hands in his lap, looking down as if he could find some consolation there for the lie he knew he would have to give. He knew he shouldn't wait too long to answer. 

"It's really not that complicated," he would begin with well-practiced casualness, accompanied with a laugh— the kind of laugh that came from a can as opposed from the spark. "He's my superior officer."

But in his mind's eye, all Flashsteel could see was Rictus, standing beside him at the podium during that press conference so long ago. His optics twinkled with the dark amusement of one who knew better, as if to haunt him with a lofty, elegiac whisper— Oh, if only.


	9. Prompt Fill: Calx/Aether [NSFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More prompt fills from twitter, this one for @fiveboos and ft. mainly their OC Aether as well as @cocaptainrodimus' OC Nyx!!! Tysm for lending them!!
> 
> This one has bondage, folks.

The cables suspending Calx above the examination table creaked loudly in his audials as he rocked to and fro with the inertia of his own ministrations. Without the spark to raise it, his helm hung low in front of him. But his optics still smoked with a nearly indignant yearning, quiet, azure coals in the shadow of the golden crown that wreathed his helm.

Aether kept a careful eye on Calx while Nyx's back was turned, observing him with the triumphant indifference Aether always tended to affect in his presence. But his optics betrayed something otherwise. Aether trode and retrode the colorful crossing lines that held Calx with only his optics, noting the eye-catching contrast of the vibrant red and blue against the dark of the mech's rich black and blue solar panels and lustrous gold plating. His optics traced over and behind, to where they tied down the long elegant fins of his sensory dish, which quivered and twitched as the mech rocked against the series of knots that ran across his open interface panels.

He wasn't particularly keen to turn away when Nyx demanded his attention with a nudge.

"Take a look at this."

Aether tore his optics away to look at what Nyx was examining. It appeared to be a part of a shoulder assembly, a rounded piece with a regular array of silver fixtures. The arm it had come from sat nearby, set aside from the other three limbs. They almost seemed fake, Aether had thought to himself after watching Nyx remove them earlier, like those from a manikin or surgical model. Aether peered over Nyx's shoulder, trying to get a better look at the open shoulder.

Nyx exchanged the head of his tool to a thin screwdriver, pointing to a series of small clamps that ran in concentric rings around the center of the joint. "These are similar to the clamps I've placed on the rest of his arm— you see, these are shut at the moment to prevent the fuselage from leaking after removal. The hidden feature of the piece, however, is…" Nyx placed the joint back down and reached to a small electromagnet on the table, connecting the circuitry to activate it. As he swept the magnet over the joint, one by one, each of the clamps opened with a gentle noise, then slammed back shut without exposure to the polarity. Nyx seemed pleased with the demonstration. "Quite unique."

From the operating table, Calx pushed and tugged against his bonds— as much as he could, with neither arms nor legs. His strong abdominal and back struts allowed him to move against the restraints, but only with effort— and not nearly enough to relieve the frustration. Static climbed audibly up the front of his chassis.

The flash caught Aether's eye. He looked over— only half intentionally —and ended up staring again— rather unintentionally. Calx's backstrut was arched in what was nearly a U-shape, the rising puffs of steam from his vents obscuring the low glow of his optics.

The chuckle from his side reclaimed Aether's attention.

"Distracted, Aether?"

"Hardly." Aether replied, too hurriedly for it to be true.

"You shouldn't feel obligated to stand around, darling," Nyx's optics creased, as if in an unseen smile. "Go ahead, amuse yourself. That is why both of you are here, after all."

Aether hesitated, until Nyx turned back to his work, before pacing towards where Calx swayed in his bonds. He strode around the golden mech, servos clasped under his wings behind his back, drumming on the back of one block. Calx's gaze trailed him, longing. He still swung gently as he caught his breath in the spotlight of the surgical lamps, broad golden plates gleaming and sending a yellow cast over the room. His struggling fins still sparked at their tips with the charge of the energy he had spent over the course of fatiguing himself with the promise of an overload— only to be exhaustingly edged to the brink, exacerbated by each progressive push.

He had been so unruly and undisciplined at the start, Aether recalled, while Nyx removed his limbs and hooked in the diagnostic wiring— first jabbering away about the reformulation of the high-end polish he used, then flirtatiously guiding Nyx's servos up the length of each leg before releasing the hip joint. But Calx's responsiveness thereafter caught Aether's attention. Calx kept the flirtation high even as he was being hitched, but no sooner had Nyx taken the gag in hand then Calx had quieted, tilting his helm up and opening his intake on command. Nyx strung the final diagnostic connection to the port under Calx's glossa and set to work. But observing left an indelible impression on the onlooker in the room— he watched and waited, Calx clearly aware of the optics on him. But he was in no position to make any comment. He still was in no such position, only very obviously growing more desperate for Aether's attention— for him to make a move.

Aether wanted to savor the chance.

"Open your spike housing." he demanded.

Calx didn't so much as hesitate. With a deep ex-vent and the sound of retracting plating, Calx's spike pressurized, leaking a thread of lubricant under him. Calx's biolights pulsed, and a long shiver crawled visibly up his backstrut. But otherwise he waited, still, for the next command.

As he crossed to Calx's front, Aether leisurely trailed the tips of his servos over the joint of Calx's hip, up past the seams of Calx's abdomen, faintly scratching over the reflective surface of the well-polished gold chest plating. Calx writhed beneath him, upsetting their path, only stopping as soon as he recognized the perturbed look on Aether's faceplates. He stopped immediately without Aether even having to make a sound, staring back desperately as if in a silent plea for Aether to forgive the slight. His intakes were labored, as if he'd beg if able to.

"You seem to like my attention," Aether purred, entertained by the display.

Calx's optics widened, but he made no effort to avert his gaze. Calx was so much more demure, more tempting when unable to mouth off. He nodded, at length, optics dimming, fluttering shut.

"I wonder— you know how I conduct my business." Aether continued, holding Calx's chin in one hand while the other grazed along his side, down toward the seam of his pelvic plating. Calx shuddered beneath him, optics half lidded and vocalizer clicking against the manual mute. "You wouldn't be jealous of that. You have better things to be jealous of."

Aether traced the edge of his pelvic plate, teasing the idea of dipping into the seam. Calx's optic shutters opened a fraction in what might have been recognition, allowing him to gaze back at Aether.

"But regardless, you’ve thought about this, haven’t you?"

The reaction was immediate. Calx's optics shone brightly beneath his shutters, and he sighed raggedly, pushing himself as best he could towards Aether's touch, as if he could wantonly cry his assent with the whole of his frame.

Satisfied, Aether felt for the housing of Calx's spike and curled his servos around its head, pushing a mess of lubricant down the shaft with a long, strong stroke. Calx hissed a breath, and he struggled to keep his helm held high.

"How did I guess?"

–––//–––

Aether hitched the last of his belongings into the subspace container, checking the flexible cords with a forceful tug to each end. He set his dentae as he pulled the last with a grunt before minimizing the container and performing one last, feverish sweep of the habsuite he had been occupying for the bulk of his lifetime. The walls still bore the paint he had applied, the windows still trimmed with the expensive organic-made fabric he had fitted them with to block out Cybertron's bright sun. He claimed he wasn't attached to these trappings— he had taken what few gifts and practical items he truly cared for already —but something about this final, anxious sweeping of the room turned his fuel lines into knots.

He opened and shut the drawers of one of the storage units along the wall, optics skimming over the unused tins of polish and associated cloths in one, parts of his extensive collection of professional tools in the next two (nothing more exciting than the personal favorites he had already recovered in his subspace), invoices, records, other bureaucratic documents now reduced to a state of irrelevancy— Cybertron's bureaucracy wouldn't be finding him, not anytime soon at the very least.

He was tempted to slam the last cabinet door, as if to give a sense of finality to this last check, but thought better of it. It was late, even for the hours this kind of house kept, and it had already been hard enough for Aether to bid Fable alone farewell.

Aether put the container in his subspace. The lights went dark as the door to the suite closed behind him.

Aether headed straight for the foyer without looking back, optics on his pedes to avoid the sections of the floor he knew had the tendency to creak and groan. He couldn't remember how many times he had picked his way through these halls over the years, off to some off-hour amorous rendezvous or discussion with their weary purveyor over the books. Remembering it was enough to make his optics mist with condensation and throat close with the effort not to drown the warmth of his memories in another fresh round of tears.

He stopped at the door to take a deep breath and tried to still his racing pulse. It was his choice to leave this one-time home as much as it had been to come there so long ago. He wiped the covers of his optics and shuddered, rolling back his shoulders and lifting his chin with an effort to refresh his resolve.

Aether's servos were just above the release when he heard the locks on the door retract sharply. Aether recoiled, as if the pad had burned him, stumbling backward. Panic replaced his grief with a tightness throughout his chassis and a near-irresistible itch in his transformation cog. The door slipped aside, too quickly, pulling in a gust of fresh midnight air and the glow of the street lamps outside.

It was Calx looking back at him through the door, the fins of his dish splayed gently behind him and reflective frame lush with color under the glowing pink light of the brothel's flickering signboard. Aether was frozen in place, joints locked, unprepared and fearful. Calx seemed surprised, at first, then confused as Aether continued to stare back. He knitted his brow in a gentle frown at Aether and cocked his helm to one side as he took a casual, sweeping step inside.

"Oh— Aether, you scared me." He said, so normally that Aether had to repress a shudder. "Isn't it a bit late to be going out, dear?"

"I…" Aether cleared his vocalizer, concealing the wince that had entered his tone. "I suppose."

"The streets just aren't as safe as they used to be…" Calx trailed off with an aimlessly lamenting tone.

Aether nodded numbly, clenching one of his fists and trying to stem the torrent of words collecting behind his dentae. Calx leaned on the doorframe, observing him with careful attention. It was a cold, piercing glare, one that lingered heavily on Aether's spark. He found himself speechless and unable to look Calx in the optics, and with every passing second, more determined to rush past him. Calx was not about to crush his resolve.

Aether, still looking at the floor, took one step forward with a crack of his heel on the floor, a sound that overwhelmed his audials with a buzzing anxiousness. He took another, four steps to the door, until Calx was directly his way, still lounging on the exterior in what Aether cat-eyed scrutiny. Aether tried to muster his annoyance to glare back, shooting Calx a sharp look. But when he saw Calx, he couldn't hold it. The younger mech's expression was wide and anguished, as though in the few moments of silence he had realised something terrible.

"Where are you going?" Calx asked, the fear clear behind his words.

"…Out." Aether forced himself to reply, biting back an objection to being asked at all.

"To where?"

Aether couldn't reply, casting his gaze down the stairway and towards the empty street as if it would fib for him.

"When are you coming back?"

They stood in silence there for a moment, unmoving, Calx staring at Aether emptily.

"You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?" he asked in a whisper.

Aether snapped back to Calx, who was despondently staring at him, hugging his forearms to his chest. He looked genuinely pained, not as tearful as he was resigned.

"For a while now." Aether confessed.

Calx nodded and turned past Aether to the darkened foyer, hugging himself tighter in an inaudible shift. He pulled himself from the doorpost to stand straight again, slipping out of Aether's path and stepping inside. His fins were held flat against his back, shoulders hunched, and frame bowed and tense. Aether wished he could reach out to him— but the sun was due to rise over Iacon, and he had no time left to wait.

He only turned back when he heard Calx call his name, voice clarion like the daybreak.

"Aether…"

Aether took a gulp of the pale night air and turned back. Calx was standing in the doorway, biting his lip with his fists harshly clenched at his sides.

"Good luck." Calx struggled to say. "I hope we'll meet again."

He quickly turned from the door, which slammed between them with a click of the locks, leaving Aether cold under the moonlit sky.


	10. Repetition Exercise Prompt: Calx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I did this for a prompt to write a scene or segment using the repetition of a word, phrase, image, or idea-- I couldn't resist giving my space boy a bit of love.

The moon was full, though the night darkened, and the stars were millions of miles away from the city streets. He stood alone on the balcony, watching as the lights of the roadway dimmed one by one, his restless hands quivering where they gripped the railing. This puerile fear would leave him if he just spent another minute, another few minutes, watching the world quiet from its waking whirlwind of activity, shudder, and fall to rest. 

Days, time itself, passed differently, looping between the winding orbital pathways of Cybertron and its lunar satellite. Calx, for the most part, ignored time. There was so much to see when caught at the intersection of his figure eight— the lights blinking out across Cybertron's night, the bright moon which dwarfed him, the phosphorescing light of its dark side, the velvet of the black beyond. 

He sincerely believed at that point he had never been destined to chase the sun like the surface population below. He charted his time by where he was in his loop, by the charge in his solar cells, and the fuel he had left in his tank. He even charted the time by how long it took to send his signals home. At least, it had been, when he had received a response— to his data or to his personal messages. 

When the world darkened, Calx never extinguished the lamps in his room. He lived in a world so bright as to be dizzying now, but there was no comfort in the blackness. Nor silence. On nights alone, when even the howling of the bordello had ceased, he woke with a start. Only the ornate, dimly burning lamps on the walls, the lush satin of the berthcover, the vanity with its many stacked tins, and hearing the faint hum of the electricity would remind him:

He was here. 

He was home.

Cybertron, where his bright spark had once furrowed its way to the surface of Verspertine Blue, where the stars were further away than they had ever been— where the night darkened, but the full moon fit in the palm of your hand.


	11. Sensory Writing Exercise: Flashsteel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another writing exercise! This one was a challenge to use as many senses as available to my character. I chose Flashsteel; I always wanted to write about how he got that unique arm of his.
> 
> Warning that this examines a traumatic injury and the aftermath.

Flashsteel had been brave to go back, brave to face down what he knew would happen, just to protect his soldiers, just to complete his mission. They would say so when he was awarded his medals. But that was not how he remembered it. 

For him, the strongest memory was of the pain: what came after the blindness, the unending whine in his audials, and the strange sensation of loss, the horrifying drop of reality as the blast overtook him. His network hadn't caught up with his processor in the moment— his vision was blank, his hearing was overwhelmed, and the feeling was a numbness with an irritating prickle of heat, like sliding into hot oil after bathing in a glacial decontamination chamber. The taste was as foul as the smell of smoking metal, as rancid to the tongue as disinfectant. He found himself unaware until the light subsided and he crumbled into the ashes of half his limbs, the stolen cargo still tucked safely in his remaining arm.

Something, something he couldn't see loomed over him as he laid there, but a pain that narrowed the world to a pinhead overtook his sensors. The figure vanished like a phantom before his weak, darkening eyes. His last thought was certain and unpleasant.

He was surprised to wake to hear anything at all. His vision was still out, but to his addled mind, that was to be expected of death, perhaps. Maybe everyone died only to find themselves conscious with a too-heavy tongue and a processor ache. But he was more surprised to be able to feel something too heavy and too painful where his arm should have been.

Even lying down he could clearly feel the strain. It was odd, as when he tried to move his hand, he could hear his own actuators, feel the tug of the mechanics, but they stopped cold within his limb. The strange, alien thing that attached to it now could not— rather, did not budge for any of his efforts. And it was too heavy to raise. He couldn't feel it, and it frightened him. He could feel his leg, nudge it even. He couldn't comprehend it— he believed the dead did not hear, but that was an easy enough prediction to countermand. Perhaps that was why the dead should be entombed— to be encased in a hard box of metal and not have to hear anything said thereafter. But to feel some things and not others, that frightened him. To his knowledge, the dead did not cry either, and he was more frightened to feel the energon on his cheeks.

Something flickered in the back of his head, and a blank white ceiling pulled into view. Then a familiar face, which momentarily, he was not certain how he knew. An old friend, surely, someone he had met once, early on, long ago, when this foul experience had first begun. Someone kind enough to have taken care of him once— it must have been on Cybertron, he remembered. Flashsteel's tongue was too heavy, and his vocalizer whined as he strained it to speak. A name sprang to his lips.

"Ready… Isn't that Ready?"

Ready seemed as shocked as Flashsteel when he craned his neck to look over at the medic. He gasped gently, holding the silence between them for a moment, and then grinning with the exuberance of a much younger doctor, a bit of triumph in his voice.

"Oh! Flashsteel. I told them you'd wake up— I told them, sure as stars have hydrogen. Seems like I can _officially_ say I'm a better doctor than the one who found you." He clasped Flashsteel's remaining hand in his own, giving it a grateful squeeze. "There's a good deal to explain, but only if you're up to it."

Flashsteel nodded, doing his best to find his smile, though he realized his teeth were on edge against a deep soreness he only then began to recognize. He attempted to roll himself over to launch his more disobedient hand forward, out of some desire to hold the medic's hand. Something clanged, but he didn't feel it— he thought he could sense his fingers curled around his long-lost friend's, feel the twitch of the servos where they clasped that warm, gentle hand. But when he looked, there was nothing but a cylinder of black metal, colder than life, and entirely numb.

Flashsteel shook his head in confusion, unsure of what was happening. Ready raised his other hand to hold the unfeeling thing between them. Flashsteel's optics weren't focused, and he heard the sob, but he was uncertain if he was the one who cried.


End file.
